She's Gone and I Have Nothing to Wear

Though I'm still no style icon, back in my teens and twenties (and, er, thirties) I really had no idea how to dress. I tried, but I constantly got it wrong - you know, the right pants with the wrong top, or the right dress with the wrong shoes, or the right shoes with the wrong everything else.

My sister, on the other hand, always looked great. She had a very particular style - sort of casual, just-thrown-together cool. She wore a lot of cargo pants and brightly coloured singlets and little skirts and the occasional gorgeous patterned dress or top. She loved purple. She had so many purple singlets we all lost count.

I remember her wardrobe; it was basically a portarobe in the sunroom off her bedroom, absolutely chock full of clothes in no particular order.

Tanya laughed at my fashion choices. She laughed at a lot of my choices. I recall her once going through my CD collection which, admittedly, was rather woeful - lots of  Michael Jackson and Madonna and Smiths and Kate Bush (to represent both my upbeat and contemplative sides). And then she noticed one rogue, totally hip album, and pointed and cried out, "Oh look! You have some Massive Attack by mistake!"

Anyhow... every now and then she would let me go through her extensive wardrobe and pick out things I liked that she no longer needed. It was the best fun. I know she was the younger sister but it felt very much like a kid raiding her mother's wardrobe. Tanya bought a lot of stuff and discarded a lot of stuff and so I always came away with some new things to wear. Sometimes I'd want one of her newer outfits and she'd protest, but I nearly always got what I wanted. I'm persuasive that way.

And the thing about Tanya was.... She loved giving me her clothes. She loved it when I looked nice. She genuinely wanted the best for me.

She would have been so proud of all I've achieved, and she would have loved my youngest daughter so much. SO much. My baby turns eight on the 26th of November, three weeks to the day after Tanya will have been dead for eight years.

Today. The 5th of November. It's been eight years.

She was awesome. You would have liked her. All of you. You would have liked her. Most everyone did.

Eight years today. I miss her. And I miss her wardrobe.

I have nothing to wear.

Dreams of the Dead

Shortly after my sister died I had a dream. It was unlike any dream I’d had before, or have had since. It was crystal clear and in full colour, with none of the sepia fuzz or blurred edges of regular dreams. It was absolutely indistinguishable from real life.

I was in a corridor at a party, surrounded by people, with music blaring. I looked up and I saw my sister dancing toward me. Tanya had been ill for years before she died, but in the dream she was healthy, beautiful, and radiantly happy.

She smiled at me, and we had a brief conversation, too intimate to be repeated here. But I said what I needed to say to her, and her reply was just what I needed to hear.

I woke up with an absolutely overpowering sense of having just had a conversation with my sister. Her voice rang in my ear, as real as the sounds you can hear now. It was odd and unsettling, but incredibly comforting to me.

I am not a spiritual person. I have never believed in the spirit world, or in life after death. I never for a moment imagined that I could communicate with my sister, and I’m still not sure that I did. But the dream felt like I had communicated with her, and it gave me the closure that I so desperately needed. It gave me a final conversation with my sister that I did not get a chance to have in real life.

Tanya has appeared in my dreams many times since, but never again in that same way. My dreams of her are often distressing; she is there, but I know that she shouldn’t be there because she is dead, and my dream self is confused trying to work it all out.

I asked friends if they ever dreamed of their lost loved ones and, overwhelmingly, they do. Some like D, whose husband died suddenly last year, have profoundly upsetting dreams in which their loved one is lost over and over again.  

“I'm always chasing him, begging him to come back, to stay with me and our three sons. He never answers my questions, never looks at me in these dreams. He just walks away and ignores my pleading. I hope to one day have a comforting dream with him in it.”

Others find their dreams to be uplifting, offering another glimpse of that deeply missed person.

“I recently renovated and moved into my late parents’ home,” says M, “and they visited me in a dream – they were so happy to be at my housewarming. I believe they were just letting me know they approve.”

And C, who dreamed of her late father when she was pregnant. “He came and sat next to me in his favourite tennis shorts, put his hand on my belly and told me we're having a girl and she will be fine. Two weeks later we found out we were having a girl and she is now almost seven. I believe dreaming of our departed is them coming to say hello.”

And yet many others, like me, feel bereft when they wake, as their conscious mind remembers what their dream state did not.

“It is comforting during the dream,” said S, who lost a parent, “but achingly sad when I wake and have to process the loss again.”

Of course it is sad. There is always going to be sadness in death. And I wouldn’t wish my dreams of Tanya away, not even the ones that cause me pain. It is okay for me to feel pain when I remember my sister, or when I conjure her in my dreaming. She was in my life for 37 years, and she will always be part of the fabric of who I am, whether or not she is still alive.

I’ve long since stopped wondering whether my initial, hyper realistic dream was anything more significant than just my brain grieving a loss. I know now that it really doesn’t matter. Whether it was my sister visiting me from beyond, or my subconscious being super kind to my conscious, is irrelevant. It helped me more than any grief counselling or sympathy. At the time it was just what I needed.

My sister is gone, but she lives on in my dreams. And I cherish that. It means she is still with me, that she is not forgotten. I hope that I dream of her for the rest of my life.

This column first appeared in Sunday Life magazine

So.... Last year I failed.

So. I have just finished writing my fourth book. I submitted it to my agent today. It is my first attempt at fiction. I enjoyed writing it. I just finished re-reading it and I was excited to find out what happened. Which was odd, because I knew. But I think it is a good sign.

Now, those of you who are familiar with my career might be scratching your heads. Hasn't she only written two books? When My Husband Does the Dishes and The Little Book of Anxiety?

Well, no. Those are the books that have been published. I wrote my third book last year. It is still sitting in my computer.

My third book was a memoir about grief. It was the story of my sister and I, intertwined with another painful episode in my life. The four publishers who saw it all said it was beautifully written. None of them would publish it. They said it was too sad and that they couldn't market a book about grief.

Getting that news was one of the lowest points of my life. Not the absolute lowest, obviously; I mean, hey, I've written a memoir about grief! I know what low moments look like! But it was pretty grim. I was fairly recently separated, and struggling to build a new life alone. I had taken a risk in writing a different kind of book, one which wasn't funny, or light, or easy to read. And I had taken time away from doing income-generating work, which was even more of an issue now that I was a single mum.

And I was used to success. My other two books were snapped up. I was always deeply grateful for my good fortune in being published, but I honestly never imagined that this third book wouldn't go the same way. I thought it would be a best seller. I thought it would soar. Instead I was told it wouldn't be published.

I was crushed. Crushed. I mean, temporarily broken. I sobbed non-stop for about thirty hours. I was beyond devastated. All that work, all that love, all that faith, gone to waste. It was a kick in the solar plexus. I was winded. I was inconsolable.

And then I finished crying, and I got up, and I got on with my life. And, once the dust had settled, I started another book.

I never mentioned my Grief Book (as I think of it) because I was ashamed. I was ashamed of the failure. But I'm not ashamed anymore. I'm not ashamed because I've picked myself up and tried again, and I'm happy with what I've written, and I'm hoping for good things.

And you know what? Maybe one day the Grief Book will be published. Maybe I'll self publish it and I'll sell a billion copies. Maybe I'll self publish it, and only one hundred people will read it, but out of those one hundred people, ten are deeply moved. I don't know. Life is long. There are many options ahead.

Keep trying, is what I'm saying. Keep pushing forward. You will have failures, you will have roadblocks, you will have bitter disappointments. But they fade, and you are left with the challenges and joys of today.

I hope my agent likes my new book. I hope it goes far. And if it doesn't, I will give it all up and get a job as a barista.

Or I'll write another book.

Yeah. Probably that.

Triggered

I don't cry very often these days. I spent a long time crying an awful lot, and I think I used up a lot of my lifetime quota.

What's more, I am keenly aware of my good fortune. I am deeply, profoundly grateful for my children, my parents, my wonderful friends, and my good life in this country. I do what I love, I live in a beautiful part of the world, and I am luckier than 99.9999% of people who exist on this planet.

But sometimes I do cry. And when I do, it is like unleashing a beast. The floodwaters break, and I cry tears for every grief and loss I have ever known.

Last night I had an argument with someone very important to me. In the scheme of things, it wasn't particularly significant. It was the kind of argument that we have had many times before. But I was tired, and took it badly, and when I was alone again I started to cry. Not the kind of gentle tears I cry when watching One Born Every Minute or when someone amazing performs on The Voice. No, these were great racking sobs that shook my whole body and turned my face into a squidgy red puffy-eyed mess.

And I stayed like that for nearly two hours.

When I cry, it triggers the deep well of pain I still have within me, the pain I will carry for the rest of my life. the pain of missing my sister, which is buried in a place only accessed by the key that is my tears.

On a conscious level, I remember how much I miss her when I am feeling sad, because she was always there to comfort me when I had a problem or needed support.

But on a far more primal level, sobbing unlocks that grief, like picking a scab off a wound will cause it to bleed. And the only thing left is to cry it out until the tears have passed once again, and the grief retreats back into that safe place in which it lives in my heart.

This morning I woke tired and low, hungover from a night out on the sobs. So then I went back to sleep, and started the day again a couple of hours later. And now all is restored in my world, and in my equilibrium.
We can endure. We can be happy. We are stronger than we think. We need to feel what we need to feel, when we need to feel it.

And then life begins, anew, in all its fortune and wonder.

Writing 'Was'

I don't mean to write two sad posts in a row. I'm sorry. I like to mix it up a bit. The funny is good. I like the funny. If we can't do the funny, then how can we cope with the sad?

But I woke up this morning to the news that Peaches Geldof has died. Clearly, I don't know Peaches Geldof. I did, however, grow up not liking Mondays and having Bob Geldof to thank for that. And then I cried a dozen times watching the clip for Feed The World, and fell in love with the man who wrote the song. Later, Michael Hutchence (with whom I was also a bit in love) called Sir Bob a monster, but that didn't change the fact that he was part of the fabric of my youth.

I remember when Peaches and her sisters Fifi Trixibelle and Pixie were babies. Their names were one of those pieces of information sealed inextricably in my brain. You know... I couldn't remember what the capital of Russia was, but I remembered the names of the Geldof girls. Which, arguably, was more important currency back in the day.

I am crushed for the Geldof family that Peaches has died, aged 25, leaving behind two sons and a husband. It is so young. It is so hideously young. Every death of a young person brings my own loss to the forefront of my mind again. Every death of a person who pre-deceases their parents reminds me of my parents' grief in losing my sister. But Sir Bob's words just resonated so painfully, so profoundly, and so beautifully. He wrote:

She was the wildest, funniest, cleverest, wittiest and the most bonkers of all of us. Writing 'was' destroys me afresh. What a beautiful child. How is this possible that we will not see her again? How is that bearable?
We loved her and will cherish her forever. How sad that sentence is. 

I could have written those lines about my sister. And it reminds me, yet again, of the suddenness of death. One minute someone is there in your life, alive and vibrant and present and vital and there. And then, in a second, everything changes, and your story is completely re-written.

But we can't live our lives fearing these moments. We have to live each day as though everyone we love will be there for the next ten thousand, because otherwise we cannot keep going. And for most of us, they will be there. It is the rare, tragic cases where they are taken too soon that remind us just how blessed we really are.

RIP Peaches Geldof. And to her family - I don't know you, but I really do feel your pain, and I'm sorry. Wishing you all a long life.

Dear Rosie Batty...

Dear Rosie Batty,

I am so sorry for what you went through on TV this morning. I could feel your pain, the hideous, agonising pain of losing your beautiful, beloved son Luke. It was twisting my guts and wrenching my soul. I saw my parents in similar pain, they lost my sister six years ago, and only someone who has been close to such profound, shocking grief can possibly understand how it feels.

I am sorry.



I am so sorry for what Joe Hildebrand said. He was wrong, a thousand shades of wrong. Rosie, he can't possibly understand what it means to be in an abusive relationship. None of us can if we haven't been there. But those of us with compassion and empathy, we listen to other people's stories. We hear their fear. We acknowledge their pain. We try to wrap our heads around what it must be like to be utterly controlled by another person. And we accept that their reality is valid, and terrifying, even if it doesn't in any way match our own.

I am sorry.

I am so sorry that you were forced to defend your role as loving mother and protector of your son. We know how deeply you loved Luke. We could see it in your eyes. We could hear it in your voice. And we know, because so many of us have children of our own, how profoundly and desperately we love our own babies. It is understood. You did everything you could. We know that and we have never questioned you at all.

I am sorry.

Any parent of a deceased child blames themselves in some way. As a parent, we are supposed to protect our children from harm. But this doesn't mean the blame is justified. You are not responsible for what happened to Luke. The only person responsible for that is his father. We know that. We believe that, fiercely. You did everything you could. You loved your child. Please know that we believe that with all our hearts.

We are sending you our love, and our strength, and our support. We are there with you, Rosie. We wish you long life, and hope that you will find joy again.

We are sorry that you were hurt this morning, and that your terrible grief was compounded. On behalf of women everywhere, please know we are with you.

Kerri

I Love Them

By now you will all be familiar with the terrible story of Luke Batty. As a mother, as a separated spouse, as a single parent, as a human being, I am devastated by his death.

I don't have anything to add to the commentary on the tragedy. And this post isn't designed to be controversial, or to get hits. I just need to write it, for me, and for my kids. It is about love. It is about joy. I love them. I love them.

The depth of feeling I have for my children overwhelms me. It brings tears to my eyes as I sit at this computer. After nearly fifteen years of parenthood, it remains as strong. I feel grateful for my kids every second of every day. I get tired. I get sick of housework. I get frustrated. I get bored. But every time I look at those three incredible people, I am consumed with love.

My son is fourteen, and growing up, and becoming a man. But every night he wants me to kiss him good night, and every time he does I feel lucky. I go into his room and I run my fingers through his shaggy hair, and I kiss his still-smooth cheeks, and I tell him how much I love him. I am so in awe of that amazing kid. I feel ridiculously proud of who he is becoming.

My daughter is twelve, and is beautiful inside and out. She radiates warmth and understanding, she is generous and kind. In the mornings, if she is still asleep when I wake, I like to sneak into her bed and 'steal her warm'. In the evenings, when saying goodnight, I kiss her on the eyelids and pretend to eat her eyes. I cannot believe that I created her. She is the best person I know.

My six year old is just like me. She dances with abandon, composes poetry on the spot, laughs hysterically and cries passionately, and wants endless hugs and love. She has a heart-shaped face and massive saucepan eyes, and every morning when she emerges from her room it is like falling in love for the first time. I cuddle her like a dolly on my lap. I could stay like that for hours.

I love my kids. I feel so intensely lucky to have them. I can't bear that other people have been deprived of theirs. My parents lost a child. My sorrow for them is almost worse than the pain I feel at losing a sister. I want my parents to share in the joy of my children. They generate enough joy and enough love to go around.

I am so sorry, I am so hideously sorry for Rosie Batty. I wish her long life, and I hope that one day she will find peace.

And in the meantime, I need to say it: I love my kids. I love them. I am so lucky to have them. I am a woman truly blessed. I will sneak into their rooms and I will kiss them while they are sleeping. I will burst with pride when I hear their daily triumphs. My heart will constrict with pain when they tell me their challenges. I love my kids so much. I love them. I love them.

How To Have A Funeral

Today we farewelled my Nana Mim. She was 95.

Jews have very particular traditions regarding death and mourning. I'm not religious at all, but the structure that the Jewish law gives at times like this is incredibly comforting.

I'm fascinated by other people's customs when it comes to grieving. I have only been to a couple of non-Jewish funerals and found them to be very different to my own experience.

When a Jewish person dies, they are transported almost immediately to the Chevra Kaddisha, which is a central funeral home. All Jews use the Chevra Kaddisha. There is no need to pre-plan a funeral or find a funeral director because there is no alternative. All Jews are buried in the same way.

From the time the person dies, they are never left alone. A special volunteer known as a 'shomerim' (guard) stays with the body until it is buried. The body is cleaned in a special way, wrapped in a sheet, and placed in a plain coffin. This is because there is no distinction between rich and poor; everyone is equal in death.

Jewish people are buried very quickly, usually the next day. I find that this can be a bit sudden - there's not much time for people to arrange to come from interstate or overseas, and in an unexpected death mourners can still be in shock. However, the formal period of mourning ('Shiva') doesn't start until after the funeral, so in a sense the grieving doesn't even begin until after their loved one has been buried.

After the funeral family and friends generally congregate at the home of the principal mourner. That evening, and sometimes for several evenings, a 'Minyan' is held at the mourner's home. The rabbi attends and says a few prayers, a short eulogy may be delivered, and friends gather to pay their respects.

You can never offend anyone in mourning by saying the 'wrong thing'. However, if you are ever invited to a Jewish funeral, here are some guidelines:

• You don't send flowers to a Jewish funeral. We are Jews. You bring food to the mourner's house.
• When expressing your condolences, the traditional expression is to wish the mourner long life. "I wish you long life," you say. It is a reminder that life goes on, and that there will still be joy ahead for them in the future. 
• People generally do not drink at Minyans. We are Jews. We eat.
• It is traditional to cover mirrors during a period of mourning, so don't pull the sheets down.
• The mourners traditionally sit in low chairs. Don't offer them a pillow.
• You don't have to be Jewish to come to a Jewish funeral. You are welcome and wanted. Especially if you bring a plate.

On My Sister's Birthday...

Today was a significant day for two completely different reasons. Firstly, it was my sister's birthday. June 18th. She would have been 43. I thought of Tanya all day, but then again, I think of her every day anyway.

And today was significant for another reason. It was my first time on a new TV show, The Daily Edition. I am going to be a regular on a weekly panel called The Debrief with two fabulous bloggers, Mrs Woog from Woogsworld and Beth from BabyMac.

I had a great time before the panel began. A stylist looked at our clothes and suggested I wear the other scarf, not that scarf, which was terribly exciting, because she was a stylist, and she said "Yes, that works," and not "OH MY GOD YOU HAVE SHOCKING TASTE" which is what I had feared she'd say. (Although to be fair, the brief for the panel was possibly 'two stylish bloggers and one with shocking taste', so that could have been her reasoning.)

A ridiculously good looking man. And a happy woman.

I had fun with Woog and Beth practising saying key phrases such as "Well, I'm glad you asked me that," and "Let me elaborate for your elucidation," and "What a fascinating point. May I respectfully repudiate?"

And then a very tall and very handsome and very.... broad shouldered man walked into the room.

It was Kris Smith, one of the co-hosts of the show.

The man is good looking. Like, movie-star good looking. Like, slightly luminescent-with-a-hint-of-fairydust good looking. I felt shy, so I didn't approach him. And if you believed that, you've never met me, because I am SHAMELESS around celebrities and immediately pounced on him and asked for a photo.

And then I thought, I have to call Tanya. Because Kris Smith was married to Dannii Minogue who was one of our favourite Young Talent Time stars. And Tanya and I LOVED Young Talent Time. She would be so excited!

And then I remembered. I can't. She died five years ago.

I miss Tanya on her birthday. But it's in moments like these - those everyday moments that are part of the fabric of life - that I miss her the most.

It's All Okay

Life is hard. I've known that for a while, but sometimes the fact of life's hardness slaps me in the face and grabs me by the hair and twists me around and throws me against the wall.

Life is hard. Parenting is hard and relationships are fraught and friends can disappoint and loved ones can get sick and people die and there is no smooth path to eternity.

Life is hard. The past couple of weeks have been especially hard for me. Actually, the past couple of months have been especially hard for me. Hell, the past couple of years have been especially hard for me. There has been great joy, beautiful moments, lots of love and lots of laughter. But interspersed with the joy and the beauty and the laughter has been confusion and complication and worry and grief. My mind has felt messy, and my life has felt messy. I have made choices that I've regretted, and choices that I've regretted not making sooner. I have struggled to make sense of it all, and wondered how I'm going to proceed in the future.

I have always been flooded with amazing support. I have people who love me and care for me and boost me up when times are rough. I have people who empathise and sympathise and offer practical help. And I cherish all of them. I feel lucky and grateful.

But today someone gave me something no-one else had. I was pouring out my soul to her and she listened for a long time. I told her about my mistakes and my anxieties and my fears and my regrets, and she shared some of hers, and we laughed and we understood.

Then she said, "That's okay. It's all okay."

And I believed her. It is okay. It's all okay. I'll muddle through, as I've always muddled through, and so will you. Life is hard and it's messy and it can be complicated and sad. But that's okay. It's all okay.

That's how it's supposed to be.

A Terrible Story of Grief, Inappropriate Laughter, and Sophie Mirabella

By now most of you will have seen the footage of Simon Sheikh collapsing at the Q&A desk as Sophie Mirabella looks on in disgust. (If not, you will find it here.) By now, many of you will have judged Sophie Mirabella and expressed your own disgust at her reaction.

Well, I watched the footage yesterday, four separate times, and I'm not proud at all of my reaction, either.

Because do you know what I did when I watched the video?

I laughed. Every single time.

I didn't laugh because I found it funny. It's not funny. I have fainted, and it's the most horrible feeling. I've also been on television several times, and the idea of fainting on live TV is absolutely horrendous. I laughed because that's what I always do when I'm nervous or feeling uncomfortable. I can't help it. It's an instinctive reaction.

Before you judge me, let me reassure you - I'm not one of those people who stand by and do nothing when someone needs assistance. I have called for an ambulance on three different occasions when I've seen strangers in trouble. I've assisted elderly people who've fallen in the street. I've helped get kids out of an overturned car (truly - I'm starting to sound like Tom Cruise here). But I also have a terrible problem with inappropriate reactions.

Take, for example, a memorial service for my late sister. She was a psychologist of some repute, and my parents set up a university scholarship in her honor after she died. At the ceremony to mark the establishment of the scholarship, I became completely distracted by the minor twitching of the eye of one of the speakers. Sitting in the very front row of the university hall, I began to laugh uncontrollably. It was a matter of months since my sister's death, the speech was deeply moving, and I was laughing myself stupid. My shoulders shook and tears began to leak from my eyes.

Matters rapidly became worse. The woman sitting behind me assumed (naturally) that I was grief stricken and crying, and laid a hand soothingly on my shoulder. This did me in. I was overcome with guilt, which made me even more uncomfortable, which made me laugh even more. I considered leaving the room but didn't want to disrespect the speaker even further. So I grabbed a handful of tissues, buried my face in them, and conntinued to heave until the proceedings drew to a close.

So the moral of the story is this: don't judge people on their reactions to emotive situations. It doesn't mean they're bad or unfeeling, it just means they're uncomfortable and human.

And if you ever see me laughing in a sad situation, do not lay your kind hand on my shoulder. Just pass me the tissues and let me be.

RIP Spunky. We, er, think....

I hadn't seen Spunky the rabbit during the day, but I didn't think much of it. He often hides in the bushes, or darts into the cupboard that houses the rubbish bins, and we can go for hours without a sighting. But by afternoon we were getting a little worried. He hadn't eaten his food, and when we came and pushed his bowl around on the pavers - making that scraping sound that always brings him running - he stayed away.

Baby Spunky

Strange.

And then it was evening, and my husband wandered outside.

"Er, Kerri?" he called (he is the only person in the world to call me by my full name).

"What?" I asked.

"Why is there dog poo on our grass?" (he is the only person I know who is not four who actually uses the word 'poo').

I ran out to the garden. Oh dear.

There was dog poo (to use my husband's term). A LOT of it. And there was a little bit of something else unidentifiable, that I shall not detail any further. And there was fur. Rabbit fur. SPUNKY fur.

And I knew immediately. A dog had been there, alright. A big dog. A mean dog.

It had to have been a fox.

How did I know it was a fox? Well, we have fences. High fences. The gates had been closed and there was no way in the world a regular dog could have climbed them. And I've spotted foxes in our area. Other people have spotted foxes in our area. AND THERE WAS RABBIT FUR.

So we are thinking that perhaps Spunky is no more. We are thinking that perhaps Spunky has gone to that big field of carrots in the sky.

But there is no body. So we can't be sure.

The kids are very sad, but they can't quite accept it, which isn't surprising, because I can't quite accept it either. Maybe Spunky is just down a hole somewhere? Maybe Spunky is asleep in a corner that somehow, we have missed? Maybe the big dog poo was just a bizarre coincidence?

Or maybe not. Maybe he really is gone.

"If Spunky is dead," my son said, "then at least it would have been quick. He would have died of shock straight away, right?"

Oh yes, I told him. Straight away. Very quick.

But sadly, I can't be quite sure about that, either.

Happy Birthday Tun

Tomorrow is my sister's birthday. She would have been 41, except of course she will be forever frozen at 37. Tanya was only 20 months younger than me, so she always enjoyed the time between June and October, as it was the only four months of the year she could claim we were just a year apart in age.

It's a cliche, and I'm sure you've heard it before, but you never get over losing someone you love. It's not like a wound that heals over. It's more like losing a limb. You learn to live without the limb, but it never grows back, and you never, ever forget that it's gone.

What's more, grief is not at all as you'd expect it to be. My sister had been sick for many years and her death, though shocking, wasn't entirely unexpected. I had actually visualised myself at her funeral many times before. I assumed that I would wail; I'm a very emotional person and it seemed like the logical response. But I didn't wail. I didn't cry. I didn't even shed a tear for weeks.

And in the months and years afterwards, though I would break down on occasion in the privacy of my own home, I found that a wall built up around me in relation to my sister. I could talk about her with friends or my parents and stay completely devoid of emotion. Worse. I became guarded, defensive, almost hostile. I didn't want to visit her grave and I didn't want to meet with her friends to remember her. I'm sure the psychological explanation is that I was protecting myself from overwhelming emotion, but I still felt guilty for not opening up more. It seemed disloyal to Tanya not to demonstrate to the world how profoundly I missed her.

Strangely, though, the nature of my grief has changed over time. It's been three and a half years now, and the bodily tension I feel whenever I think or speak about my sister is starting to dissipate. And she's popping up in my sleep. Over the past several nights I've had recurring dreams about trying to contact Tanya - I have her phone, or I've lost mine, or I can't dial the number - and I wake up feeling like I've lost her all over again.

This morning my husband asked me if I'd like to visit Tanya's grave tomorrow, on her birthday. We could take the kids - they are young and unburdened by adult hang-ups, and always love to visit their auntie. I automatically said no, as I always do. I don't want to visit her grave. I don't want to see a headstone reminding me that my sister has died.

But then, suddenly, I started to cry. And I realised that I do want to go. I want to connect with my sister. I want to leave purple flowers, and Werther's Original Caramels, and Cote D'Or Bouchee chocolates. I want to acknowledge her life, and how much she is still with me. I want to demonstrate, in some small way, how much I still adore her.

Which is also the reason I am writing this post.

Happy Birthday Tun.

My Sister

It is exactly three years to the day since my beautiful sister died at the age of 37. I've cried so that my eyes are swollen slits. I've even tried haemorrhoid cream to bring them back to normal (and I have included that line quite deliberately; Tanya would have loved the reference to grief and bottoms in the one paragraph).

I'm not going to talk about my sister's death, but I will tell you a bit about her life. Tanya was awesome. She was a lot like me (the awesome parts of me only), but funnier, smarter, prettier, kinder, and with much bigger boobs (which I always envied) and long, long corkscrew curls (which she twirled endlessly in her fingers, driving us all to distraction). On the other hand, she was judgemental, ruminative and had utterly shocking taste in music, unless you like Heavy Metal, in which case she rocked big time.

Tun was 20 months younger than me and was the cutest baby ever. We were always very close, and used to laugh about my parents behind their backs and bitch together about our friends. We got on well even as kids, although obviously we had our fights. I recall hitting her once, when we must have been about seven and five. She cried big tears from her huge eyes, and I was so distraught with remorse that I ended up crying even harder and begging her forgiveness.

Tanya was a shy child but grew up to be hugely popular with both the girls and boys alike. Even though I was older, I often felt like her daggy little sister. She was much more adventurous than me and did exciting things like dating lots of guys and attending rave parties and travelling that I never would have been brave enough to do. And she thought I was hilariously conservative. I got a tattoo in part to prove to her that I wasn't, but sadly by the time I got it I disovered that she'd already got two. And they were much bigger than mine. Cow.

I was always a good girl, and she was the naughty one, but on occasion she inspired me to acts of great badness. I remember vividly my Year 12 concert, where we put on a little show for the rest of the school. Tanya, then in Year 10, had been put on detention for some transgression or another and wasn't allowed to watch. I was outraged. It was MY shiow and there was NO WAY my sister was going to miss it (remember, we didn't have digital cameras then) and I STORMED into the vice principal's office and DEMANDED that he let Tanya attend. It didn't work, of course, but I felt rather proud of my rebellion, and now I can't remember what the hell the show was about anyway.

Tanya was addicted to clothes. She loved singlets, cargos, hoodies, and purple everything. She had closets full. She had far better dress sense than me for most of our lives, but generously (or out of shame that her older sister was wearing green flared pants) would let me come over and look through her wardrobe and choose things to take home. And inevitably, every time I did my husband would look at me up and down, say 'You look great, Tanya gave that to you, right?' and I'd know who was the fashion queen in our family.

Tanya had a series of boyfriends, all handsome, and all absolutely devoted to her. They were all also linked to each other by friendship, like a human man chain. She would date X, then move straight to X's best friend Y, then on to Y's mate Z, before meeting P, who she met at X's party. But the guys all stayed friends, and they all still loved Tanya even after she broke up with them (which, usually, she did). I don't know what she did, but it must have been good.

I could go on and on and on. The time we pierced each other's ears (for a second time) in the bathroom at my Nana's house. The time Tanya encouraged me to ring a boy I liked, and he rejected me, and we got drunk together afterwards. The time we got stoned with some friends on the balcony of a unit in Surfers Paradise and decided that 'Life In A Northern Town' was the all time greatest song EVER, until the next morning. The day my son was born and Tanya was so excited to hear the news she reversed into her gate. The time she exclaimed, when browsing through my tragic collection of CD's, "Oh look, how cute! She has Massive Attack by accident!"

Tanya, BB, I miss you every single day. The kids and I love you so much.

A Woman In A Store

I can't write about my sister. Nearly three years on, I still can't write about the day she died, or the events preceding it. However I think about her constantly, and her loss informs everything I do, and feel.

On Saturday I wandered into a shop in Bondi Junction. It was the day before my birthday and I was looking for a gift for myself. As I ran my hands along a rack of grey tops, a woman entered the store with her two small sons. She was short, blonde and plump, with an open, friendly face and a no-nonsense manner.

"Okay kids, sit yourselves down, we have to do this quickly," she said. The boys sat obediently and she began sorting through racks.

"This will be good," she said. She grabbed a dress and threw it on the counter. "And I think she'd like this... and maybe this..." Clearly the woman was not buying for herself, and I was impressed with her quick decision making and evident generosity. I'm not at all sure why I struck up a conversation, but something compelled me to approach her.

"Are you buying a gift?" I asked. She turned and nodded.

"They're for my friend," she told me. She glanced around at her boys and mouthed the words. "She is D-Y-I-N-G of cancer. I can't take it away, but I thought I could at least buy her something to make her feel nice."

I hadn't expected that response at all. I was quite overcome. "That's so lovely of you," I said.

The woman shrugged. "She isn't well enough to shop, and even if she was she doesn't have any money. And I do have money so at least it's something I can do for her."

We began to talk, and the story unfolded. The woman's friend, I'll call her Lisa, is the mother of three children. Perfectly healthy up until a few months ago, she had an x-ray after physio treatment failed to relieve a bad back. The x-ray revealed extensive cancer in Lisa's spine, which itself was secondaries from a primary in her breast. Surgery, chemotherapy and radiation all failed, and Lisa has only months left to live.

"She's my best friend," the woman told me (I never did find out her name). "I'm taking care of her kids every afternoon. I want to tell Lisa all about what they do everyday and the things they say, but I can't, because it will make her sad that she can't be seeing it herself."

The shop was warm but I had goosebumps.

"I try to stay positive and upbeat," she continued, "but sometimes I just want to cry with her."

I knew the feeling. "You can cry," I told her, and I felt like crying myself. "She knows you're sad. It's okay to be sad together. It's a terrible situation."

She nodded. "I never had much money growing up, and then I inherited a lot. I've got more than I need. But money's become obsolete to me now."

I could absolutely relate, and I told her so. When money can't buy health, wealth becomes useless.

"I just deposited $90,000 in Lisa's account," she said. "I told her I don't want thanks and I don't. I can't make her better. I can just help her financially. She was on a hospital waiting list and I made sure she could be seen as a private patient. It's all I can do."

We talked for a few more minutes as the woman chose clothes for her friend. I told I thought she was doing a beautiful thing, and that, sadly, it was all she could do. We said our goodbyes and I left the store.

Then I thought, as I do so often, about the fragility of life. I thought of how much money can buy, but how ultimately it cannot buy the most important thing of all. I thought about friendship, and love, and how incredibly precious these gifts are. I thought about how lucky I am for being alive and healthy. And I thought of my sister. But then again, I think of my sister constantly.

I can't write about my own loss. But I can tell you this story, and, though the details are very different, the themes are much the same.

And my heart aches for Lisa, and for her friend.

To Those Who Have Lost Someone - Happy New Year

I was going to begin this post with an apology - an apology for not being funny. All the other posts on this blog are humorous. I hope...

But then I realised: life isn't always funny. I'm not always funny. My life is often hysterically ridiculous, but can also be tough, painful, desperately sad, confusing and mundane. And your life, no doubt, is the same.

Last year was a very difficult year for me and I was thrilled to see in the new decade. I celebrated with a small group of very close friends, and enjoyed every minute of our little party. The kids played, the adults ate and drank, and we all gathered together in the wind to watch the fireworks explode.

And then at midnight, I thought of my sister.

2010, I thought. She will never see 2010.

My sister didn't see 2009, either, or 2008. She died at the end of 2007, just before my daughter was born. But every year is another year she will never see. And this is the first decade I have welcomed in without her.

My sister will never see my new house. She won't see my son start his new school. She won't see my daughter go to creche, or my big girl play the violin. She won't laugh or sing or cry or watch TV or travel or get outraged at some injustice or argue over the dinner table ever again.

I miss my sister. Whenever anything happens that I normally would share with her, my first instinct is still to call her. When Michael Jackson died. When Joe Perrone came onto Twitter. When a highly non-maternal acquaintance of ours became pregnant. My reflex is to reach for the phone, to gossip with her about it. Then I remember she's not around.

Then there is the guilt, the guilt that accompanies all my happiness. Why should I experience such good fortune, such bounty, when she is unable to? I got the children, the husband, the home, the friends, the life. Why me? Why did I get so lucky and she lost it all?

A friend once advised me to be happy for both of us, to grasp for myself all the joy my sister will never be able to have. That, said my friend, is what my sister would have wanted. But it doesn't work like that. You can't live for someone else, any more than you can give them your own life.

We all have just one life to live. I have mine, you have yours. Whatever good fortune, or grief, comes our way, we have to move through it, and move forward. We're here for such a short time, and anything can happen. And we all deserve to be as happy as we possibly can.

So for anyone who has lost someone, have a beautifully happy new year.

And for those who have not, good. Hug your loved ones, have a great new year, and enjoy.